


Stolen Child

by Sleepless_Malice



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Canon Divergence - Battle of Five Armies, Character Death, Death, Depressing, Drabble, Family, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Sadness, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, dead bodies, fading, mirkwood family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 20:52:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4720034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/pseuds/Sleepless_Malice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas does not survive the Battle of Five Armies, and Thranduil finds his dead body among the dead on Ravenhill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stolen Child

**Author's Note:**

> **[Based on this anon message on tumblr]** \- _I AM SORRY TO DO THIS BUT I NEED TO KNOW. Do you know when in BotFA, Thranduil is searching the ruins for Legolas, terrified he might be dead, what do you think would happen if he had indeed found Legolas' body. *hides in shame*_  
>  **[Disclaimer]** – The elves are (unfortunately) not mine. They belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Estate – I just like to explore their lives a little further. No money is made from this story.  
>  **[Music]** \- Loreena McKennitt - Stolen Child  
>  unbeta'd

*****

**Stolen Child**

~~

Hastily, Thranduil hurried over the slippery stairs that lead up, and further up to Ravenhill, emitting an indescribable coldness. The air was thick, heavy with black smoke and the stench of burnt flesh, bitterly cold, too but the Elvenking was unable to pay notice with his reeling mind.

 _‘Legolas!’_ the words echoed in his head ever since the message had reached his ear about what had happened high upon Ravenhill.

A hasty and inconsiderate jump, and then another, he made, taking three stairs – an ill foreboding began to occupy his heart.

He wasn’t counted among those of his kin who possessed the gift (or curse) of foresight, but nevertheless something had stirred within him immediately as the word had reached him. His son, his heir – his precious child, the only memory that reminded of his wife who had long sailed to the western shored.

His eyes narrowed as an entrance came into his view, scarlet red mingling with the black blood of the orcs, the stench nearly unbearable, now. A stench that so much reminded him of the dreadful battle when his father had fallen, the battle that had made him king millennia ago, giving him a forsaken crown he had never wanted.

 _‘Elves, men, orcs – all dead,’_ Oropher’s advisor had said, as his gaze had drifted across the plains of Dagorlad, _‘your father among them.’_

Tactfulness had never been among his father’s most trusted advisor’s traits, and at first, Thranduil hadn’t quite believed him – until his father’s lifeless gaze had met his own.

 

As he halted, standing deadly still to gather himself, he drew in a deep and steady breath; and another, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, his heart wouldn’t stop racing, beating violently against his armored chest. The piercing shrieks of Sauron’s foul creatures had long ceased, as had the dreadful screams of the dying elves and men; the world lay deadly calm before him as his gaze wandered across the devastated plain that lay before Erebor’s great doors.

Step after careful step, the elf took inside the cavernous hall, but as the first dead elf’s body sprang into his view, Thranduil was unable to control himself; hurriedly, he rushed forward, giving the dead only a brief gaze.

Oh he would recognize his beloved son with closed eyes, being robbed of all his senses he would still sense his presence and with every step he took more dead bodies were revealed, but until now, Legolas was not among them, and hope briefly arouse in his heart.

 _‘Saes,’_ Thranduil prayed to the Valar, the Lords of the West, he didn’t worship, _‘let him live, but take my life instead.’_

A body, and then another.

Yet every remains of hope that had persisted scattered into a thousand pieces, and the air was filled with dreadful screams that were his own. It felt as if his heart was torn, again.

“LEGOLAS,” Thranduil cried and cursed at the same time, falling onto his knees, with words that were nothing else than hopeful pleas.

“Legolas, breathe. Saes!” (Please) With quick motions he stripped the light armor off his beloved child, bringing his fingertips against his son’s throat. No breath came, no heartbeat followed and no matter how hard he shook the stiff body, no sign of life would return. The sobbing never ceased.

“Legolas, please,” he whispered in his misery, “I cannot live without you, I cannot. Forgive me all the wrongs, forgive me everything, but return to me!”

Thranduil hoped beyond hope, praying for the miracle that never came – broken and lost, mourning. Legolas had been the anchor after his wife had died, without him he would have long been dead.

For hours he knelt onto the blood-stained floor and cried those bitter tears no parent should ever shed, cradling the life-less body against his chest, weaving his fingers into the golden strands that so much resembled his own, kissing his son’s forehead like he had done a thousand times before.

And there he sat, hour, after hour tickling by without any notion, holding the body of his dead child against his own. A frosty embrace of damp air welcomed him, as the wind gained strength again, with swirling snowflakes to follow – but he couldn’t find the strength to notice.

Darkness slowly descended over the mountain ridge, and still, there he knelt in the blood of his kin. Unnumbered tears were running down his bruised face, painting salty trails onto his ivory skin, falling down onto Legolas’ fair features.

Even in death, he hadn’t lost his beauty, Thranduil thought bitterly, and a great future would have awaited him.

He cried into the heavy loneliness which crept silently into his heart, into his body and soul, endless hour after hour, forgetting the world around him.

“My King!” Feren called out in the distance, “Finally we have found you!”

As Thranduil did not react, the Silvan elf drew closer, carefully as he did not know what to expect.

Had it been minutes? Hours? Possibly even days? Thranduil could not tell as his mind recognized the voice. His sense was lost in space and time, in an endless void filled with sorrow and pain.

Weakly he muttered, as the footsteps approached him, “be gone!” but for once, the elf did not obey his command. “Are you deaf?”

“My Lord, you must come,” Feren tried once more, placing his hand against the King’s shoulder, “night is already upon us and what happened cannot be undone.”

“Dead,” Thranduil cried out in frustration, “can’t you see it? My only son, dead. No parent should every bury their child,” he screamed and sobbed, followed by a violent assault against his Silvan friend. Always, the King had despised violence to the core, now in his frustration sanity seemed to have left him.

“Why him, why not me in his stead?”

Feren did not have an answer to this question,

“Leave me be!”

 

**~~**

The other day, dutifully Thranduil returned with only a handful of soldiers back into his halls, more than half of his people had fallen under Sauron’s dreadful assault, slain by the wretched creatures that served the Dark Lord, and often Thranduil had wished he had been among them. There was nothing that was worth living for; his wife sailed towards the western shores, his only child dwelling in Mandos’ halls, the forest that was so deeply connected to him, suffering and corrupted.

Once, there had been a time, when the proud Elvenking had thought he could find against Sauron’s spawns arising from Dol Guldur, defeating the evil that lingered right before his doorstep and save his people; this time was long forgotten.

Everything beautiful died, nothing in his life persisted a curse lying upon his family, that much was certain.

Thranduil, once the proud and imperious ruler of Mirkwood, feared among friend and foe, was a poor shadow of himself, contemplating, lost and broken with no cure made to heal his wounded soul.

No salve, no draught eased the pain that occupied his heart and soul, and often he refused to heed the advice of his healers.

There was nothing left in this world for him, which it was worth living for.

His father - dead.

 _‘Farn! (Enough!)’_ Oropher’s merciless voice bellowed repeatedly in his head, the words he had so often heard as child; all the wrongs his father had committed he had tried to avoid with his own child, granting him a childhood of happiness.

His beloved mother – dead.

His wife – dead, sailed to the western shores long ago.

And now his son – dead, slain by Sauron’s wretched servants, in a battle that was not even his own.

 

The once shining silvery hair had become pale and grey over the months, his astonishingly beautiful blue eyes that were so utterly captive did not spark any more, dull and life-less orbs in hollow sockets.

Nothing, apart from his flaring temper, was left of the glorious and regal figure, Thranduil once presented.

The moon did wax and wane and nothing about his foul state of mind did ever change.

Often, always against the warnings of his advisors, he left the sanctuary of his halls and roamed the corrupted forest for many days, crying and contemplating his beloved son’s violent death.

One day, he did not return.

 

**~~**

History about the Sindar Kings of old became legend, legend became myth and from time to time, human soldiers spoke about an ethereally glowing figure roaming the forest when they returned from the far east of the kingdom – long pale hair, ivory skin, clad in silvery gowns that shimmered in the moonlight.

An otherworldly appearance that was indescribable in the tongue of men.


End file.
